Our Entwined Futures
by dreamfandomist
Summary: What if they were always meant to meet, meant to be together and fall in love? What if their futures are tied together? Charles and Elsie hear predictions about their futures, especially about their soulmates.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters and I do not make any economic benefit out of them.**

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**Chapter 1**

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The moon was half hidden by clouds and the dusty streets of London glowed with the yellow streetlights, shadows playing upon the road as the lights flickered. In the distance, a clock tower struck ten, its deep sound echoing through the night air. There were still people on the streets, people returning from late hours at factories, trying to swallow their coughs developed from smoke and dust. Carriages were moving up and down with the curtains on the windows drawn. Most shops were closing, shopkeepers locking up their wares and taking in the wooden signs that stood outside all day advertising what they sold. Dirty and dishevelled beggars were creeping into the dark corners that they had made into their homes, for there weren't many people around to listen to their pleas and misfortunes who would occasionally toss a coin into their tins.

A merry group of young men staggered out of the theatre, singing loudly. Only one of them walked outside of the main group, his annoyance towards his colleagues hidden in the darkness of the night. Most of their ties and caps were askew, some had taken their caps into their hands. Some had dropped their caps without notice and were walking on unsteadily not caring. The young man who walked out of the group, with his distinct height and broad frame, scanned the sides of the street around them and unconsciously placed a hand over his coat pocket, where he kept his earnings for the day. While his friends were singing and making plans on what pubs to visit and what brothels they would explore, he was making mental calculations of how he would put his money by.

He would keep away a bit saved away to visit Yorkshire one day and show his father that he had made something of his years in London, though he doubted the old man would ever speak to him well again. His father had dreams for him, big dreams, hoped that his son would one day rise to become the Butler of the big house of Downton Abbey and work for the Earl of Grantham as his family had done for generations. His father, being the Head Groom, even used his position to introduce his boy to the sharp tongued Countess, who instantly took a liking to the smart and regal looking young boy and offered him a place as a hall boy, promised him a future as a footman. But he couldn't help that he had a taste for adventure, which is why he ran away and came to London to make a name for himself. But where he ended up, he often wondered.

Perhaps he would buy something for his mother, for he broke her heart when he ran away. A bolt of good fabric in a latest London design would be good. A pretty colour, for his mother was a beautiful woman who only ever dressed in dull colours, often shades of browns, deep blues or greens. A handsome emerald green, preferably a shining silk of affordable quality would be nice to go with her deep brown eyes. Perhaps a rich shade of purple in brocade. But he doubted he'd ever find the money for those expensive fabrics. It was best, he settled for cotton, he thought. He wrote to her often, told her how each day he was getting better at what he was doing, he asked after her health and wrote of happenings in London, of course only the ones that wouldn't shock her. But he never had the courage to write down the four words he was aching to tell her, 'I am sorry mother.'

He wrote that he was happy with what he was doing. He lied, he was barely content. He hoped that his sin would be forgiven for he couldn't tell her that his big dreams had smashed. He couldn't tell her that her boy was a mere performer in a double act in small theatres. They earned quite well than most others, that he could admit, but it was not what he wanted. What he desired as a young Yorkshire born boy, fresh from the moors and the green fields, was a life of colour and elegance. He wanted to travel the world, work for big clubs in London and entertain nobility. Perhaps, one day, perform before royalty and leave his mark on the world. For everyone to know that Charles Ernest Carson was famous man, a great man. But he was one among a million in the grimmer parts of London. One of the many passing grey faces, upon the grey landscape of a grey city, leading a grey life.

He was woken from his reverie by a merry question from one of his colleagues.

"Fancy a pint tonight old chap? Perhaps something stronger?" the young man shouted, twirling his cap on his index finger while he struggled to maintain his balance.

"I'm sorry but I would have to decline," Charles answered politely even though he was aware that politeness wasn't a quality that impressed these young men.

"Oh! 'Decline!' Fancy as always. It's just a pint m'boy it wouldn't kill ye," another young man stepped forward and tugged at Charles' arm, his words slurred by the amount of alcohol he had already consumed.

"Or are you too much of an angel to have anything besides tea with a splash of milk, just the way your mom made it for you?" Charlie Grigg mocked his partner in the double act, sniggering so loud that even all the others joined in.

Charles Carson was annoyed beyond words could say by his friend's insult. He wasn't a man who did things to stay in favour with the others but he often did when it came to Grigg, only because the crude young man, also a Yorkshireman, had a clever way with words at making Charles feel as if he was somehow insufficient and at times, a coward. Charles hated how Charlie would make him feel so small, but the urge to prove otherwise was too strong that Charles ended up doing what he didn't want to, including leaving Downton to some extent.

"Alright," he said as he finally he gave in to his urge to prove to Grigg that he was also 'a man.'

"I heard old Philip at the stage door say that there's new girls at the Watford's Arms," another added while the some of the others wolf whistled and Charles grunted in disgust.

"Oh lovely!" said Grigg, rubbing his palms together, "Fancy a whiskey at Watford's then boys? I suppose it's going to be a long night for most of us."

Shouts of agreement and several more whistles emerged from the group. But Grigg noticed Charles's disinterest in the prospect. A good beer and a pretty girl was something that no young man in London refused.

"What? Don't you want some fun beneath a skirt?" Grigg winked at Charles and the rest of the group exploded into laughter.

"You disgust me Charlie," Charles hissed at his friend and shook his head, turning to leave.

"Or you're afraid you'll not be good enough for your Alice Neal? She would be grateful you know, if you knew how to please a lady," Grigg shot back and clapped his hands. He laughed so hard at his own words that he had to subdue a cough that resulted from it, but the laughter from the rest of the rest of the group echoed for many seconds.

At these words Charles turned back, the venom of anger flowed in his veins faster than lightening. Alice Neal was the girl of Charles' dreams. He fell in love with the petite blonde the moment he set his eyes on her. Alice and her sister Margaret sang together, the Dove and the Lark they were called and Alice was the Dove with her soft voice and light blonde hair. His dream were filled with her gentle smile. He talked to her as best he could, brought her little gifts and intended to court her properly. Marry her one day. But he never exuded the charm that Charlie Grigg had mastered. And Charles was not as blind as to not notice that Alice was more interested in Grigg's attentions than Charles' actions and mumbled words of elegant courting he had picked up during the short period he worked for the Crawleys at Downton Abbey.

Charles raised his hand clenched into a fist but Grigg was faster and his fist caught Charles' cheek bone in a sharp punch. Charles, unprepared for any attack on himself, staggered back and barely stopped himself from hitting the ground by gaining his stability back. His cap landed a few steps behind him and when he looked up the group of men hooted and ran away. He could have chased Grigg. He was strong, he could have beaten the daylights out of the shorter man but he just didn't care. A tidal wave of sorrow washed over him and shook him to the core. Alice. Will his Alice ever be his?

He touched the sore area on his cheek with his fingertips and winced. With a sigh he turned back to pick up his cap. But instead his eyes landed on the image of an old woman, older than his mother, picking up his cap. He quickly stepped towards her and before he could bend down to get it from her, she looked up and handed it to Charles with a smile.

Her eyes were a deep green, shadows of the dark night playing upon them. She was grey around the temples and a long, grey streak of hair ran from the parting of her hair at the middle of her head to both sides along her forehead up to her ear. The woman was dressed in an old fashion brown dress and a shawl with brown, black, grey and white squares was wrapped around her shoulders. Despite the cold outside, she wore no bonnet.

A chill ran along Charles' spine, the moment her eyes met his for a reason he couldn't comprehend despite the woman's warm smile when she handed him his cap. His gaze locked deep with the old woman's and in fraction of a second he noticed that the shade of her left eye was distinctly lighter than the right. An eerie feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. The fingers of the old woman brushed with his own when he accepted his cap and hers were warm despite the cold night.

"Thank you very much," he accepted graciously with a slight nod and the old woman's smile widened.

"Your world will come crashing lad," she said in a voice that margined a whisper. She reached out her hand and took Charles' fingers in her bony ones.

Charles stared into her eyes not fully comprehending what was going on. The woman's words made a shiver run through his spine. "What… what do you mean?" he stuttered taking in the calm yet serious expression of the woman. Nothing on her face indicated that she was taking him for a fool. For a second he thought the woman was probably mad or mistaken but something drew him to the woman, to her bizarre words.

"Yes lad. All of it. All of your world will come crashing around your feet. Your Dove will fly away. The rain will drive you to the moors," she stated brushing her thumb gently on Charles' hand. Her eyes still fixed on his, and for some reason he couldn't take them away from hers.

"My dove? I don't understand what—," he began unable to make any sense out of the woman's strange compilation of sentences, but the woman cut him short and continued.

"But a Highland heart is written to your soul. A mountain soul with two blue seas, a lilt of the ringing North breeze," she said, the corners of her mouth turning into a warm smile as she recited the words in a poetic tone, yet with an ominous aura surrounding her voice. With her free hand she patted Charles' hand, but in an instant he tugged his hand out of her loose grip and snatched it away.

"A Highland heart? What the hell?" Charles shot back, wondering what to make out of this utter nonsense. Despite his logical mind telling him that there was no sense at all in the woman's words in his heart something told his subconscious mind to remain and listen to what the woman had to say.

The woman sensed Charles' unease and his reluctance and also the somewhat unconscious will to remain instead of leaving abruptly. "Time will test you lad," she said, her eyes boring into the depths of his own, "You'll walk on salt. One Christmas goes. Only then shall the thistle bloom on the rose stalk." As she finished she patted Charles' arm and ran it down to his hand.

Charles stared at her not knowing what to make of her words. It did sound like a prediction, a forecast of some sort about his future. But thoughts were racing through his mind, whether this was all a dream and he would wake up cold in his small room he shared with Grigg or if it was meant to be reality… what then?

The old woman took her hand off Charles' arm. "Remember lad 1925. 1925 will be the year," she said, carefully pronouncing each and every syllable as she turned to leave. The mismatching shades of her two eyes suddenly glimmering in the light from a street lamp a few feet away.

1925\. 1925. 1925. The number or rather the year rolled around his mind accompanied by the mismatching set of symbols the woman had conjured up in his mind. A year when he would be an old man. A future he couldn't imagine nor understand.

Charles stood still, words failing him. His mind failing at what he was supposed to do. All he could do was watch the brown clad image of the old woman retreating into the darkness and the distance of the road that stretched in front of him. The darkness swallowing her form for a moment only to be illuminated again by the next street light before disappearing into the darkness again.

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**I'm hopefully planning on writing a chapter for Elsie as well. And in the mean time I'd be grateful if you could write what you think about this in the reviews. It would mean a lot to me. Thank you!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters and I certainly do not obtain any economic benefit out of them. **

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**There's some dialogues with Scottish dialect in this chapter. I've taken the liberty of altering them a bit from the original for certain sentences so as to make it easier to understand while retaining the authenticity. A glossary for terms of Scottish dialect used in this chapter is included at the end of the story. **

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**Chapter 2**

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The setting sun was creeping behind the green hills as if in fear of the grey clouds that haunted the Scottish sky, scowling down upon farms and the purplish grey fields of heather. The smell of coming rain hung about the air as a lazy breeze fluttered across the grass and became a wind as it slowly gathered speed. Idle sun beams filtered through the angry clouds and fluttered upon the lush green grass and the grey stones, upon slate roofs and wild flowers.

A young girl with long, auburn hair flying behind her, came racing down from the old, stone farmhouse on the hill, trying hard to remember where the ground was uneven so as not to lose her balance. She stopped for a moment and turned her head in the direction of the adjoining farm. In the distance, its chimney peeped out from behind a small outgrowth of tall trees, a steady stream of smoke coming from it, the signs of dinner being prepared before the farmers came home. The chimney appearing tiny in the considerably large distance separating it with fields in between.

She hurried down the hill towards the winding road with its damp, dark earth. Instead of taking a right turn towards the gate, she turned left towards the place where the fence had broken in. Clutching her skirts to a side, she managed to jump over the broken fence. However, her skirt got caught on a jagged end of the wood and she pulled it hard causing a sharp tear on her skirt, the tough fabric letting out a sharp scream of agony having succumbed to the strength of the wood. Angrily muttering to herself, she inspected the damage. Not much harm was done, but it was enough for her to get an earful from her mother.

She looked towards her right, her gaze following the image of the chimney in the distance. She turned back towards her left, at the winding road of stone and earth that bordered the vast fields that stretched as far as her eyes could reach. The images of the taller buildings of the village blended, slightly faded against the gloomy sky, only the tallest one clearly visible unobstructed from view by the trees. The tower of the village kirk, the most distinct building.

Determined, she half walked and half ran in the direction of the village. But before she could reach the sharp bend that hid the rest of the road from view, a herd of cattle came into view. By their side walked a tall thin boy, a rugged cap on his head and a long reed dangling from his mouth from between his teeth.

"Where're ye goin' in such a hurry, Elsie?" he called out to her smirking, the words half swallowed back into his mouth in his attempt to retain his reed.

"Yer mam is at home Finley?" Elsie asked, dodging his question, annoyed by his tone and expression.

"No, she's richt behind? Why?" he asked but instead of giving him an answer Elsie rushed past him, accidently colliding on his shoulder but not caring to look back.

"Woah lassie," he called out as he clapped his hand on his head to keep his cap in place.

The last few cows appeared from the bend and a woman about Elsie's mother's age, perhaps a few years older appeared. Her shoulders wrapped in a rather battered tartan shawl, arms crossed in front at her chest. Finley's mother, Mrs McDougall. Ailsa McDougall.

Elsie stopped when Mrs McDougall came into view, her breath coming in short deep breaths, as she rested one hand on her hip. The frown that was drawn across the woman's eyebrows eased as she caught sight of Elsie. She uncrossed her arms and hurried towards Elsie calling out to her.

"Elsie lass, whit's th' matter?" Ailsa McDougall asked as she walked towards Elsie, taking in the clearly evident distressed look on the girl's face. "Yer sister?" she asked, knowing well the reason which usually put Elsie in this place.

"Aye. She's taken a wee turn. Well, mair1 than a wee turn. It keeps comin' and goin'. I dinnae ken whit tae dae," Elsie replied between sharp intakes of breath.

"Yer fetchin' the doctor?" she asked placing her hand on Elsie's arm.

"Aye, Becky's alricht at the moment but I cannae tell when it'll come back."

"Yer Da? I saw him goin' down tae the pub. Is he no' home yet?" Ailsa asked even though she knew that the whereabouts of Elsie's father would still be at the pub and would be for quite a long time more if she knew Fergus Hughes, which she did. And sick lass at home or not, he'll be there.

"No. I saw him goin' too and I dinnae think he'll be standin' straicht to fetch the doctor anyway," Elsie replied and Ailsa noted a dark shadow cloud upon Elsie's bright blue eyes. Hatred, perhaps not, but ample dislike and disappointment. Her eyebrows taking the form of an angry frown. Ailsa cursed Elsie's father, the man was growing intolerable day by day leaving Elsie left to manage things with her mother. She was maturing too fast for a girl her age. There were already a couple of lines on her forehead that ought to be present upon the forehead of an old woman not a girl of sixteen years.

"I'll see Finley home with the cows soon and come by alricht?" Ailsa ran her hand up and down along Elsie's hand in a soothing motion. All Elsie could manage was to nod and flash a watery smile that didn't reach her eyes. The forming tears that glistened in her blue eyes forbade the smile to enter her eyes.

Ailsa sighed and squeezed Elsie's arm tightly. "Th' hills willnae trap ye long lass. Ye'll go tae th' moors. Fall in love wi' a thunder."

Elsie looked at Ailsa with her blue eyes wide open in wonder. For a moment she thought she couldn't grasp the words that the older woman had uttered. But they were so clear… and so unclear at the same time. Clear, because she understood the words. Unclear, because they didn't make any sense. "Moors? Mrs McDougall I didnae ken whit ye said –"

But Ailsa cut her short, "I'll come by soon," she smiled at Elsie, her grey eyes darkening, almost making Elsie gasp. For a couple of seconds Elsie couldn't break her gaze with Ailsa McDougall, till Ailsa looked forward and shouted at her son. "Finley ye haunless eejit urr ye standin' in yin steid?" 2

Elsie stood still, too stunned to move, and watched Ailsa walk away. A few steps away from Elsie, Ailsa looked back and smiled, her darkened eyes had now returned to their original shade of grey. The unsuspecting shade of grey that was too shallow to have any depth, unlike the dark shade that possessed her eyes earlier, a depth one cannot imagine let alone fathom. Like a bottomless well from which screamed voices in a language one couldn't understand.

Elsie shook her head and walked forward quickly, hoping to fetch the doctor as soon as possible. But Ailsa McDougall's words kept spinning around in her mind. What did she mean when she said that the hills won't trap her for long? The moors? A thunder? She didn't understand.

Elsie had heard whispers of villagers who said that Ailsa McDougall was a witch. She'd heard that she descended from a long line of witches, some said druids. She had heard that even the name Ailsa meant supernatural victory, an uncommon name. No one crossed her, but she was also one of the friendliest and kindest women in the entire village. But still, no one dared speak ill of Ailsa McDougall in public or do her any harm. In fact she was famous for home remedies, and many a cut and bruise were healed with salves she made at home. Elsie never cared for tales of folklore. But she was a Scotswoman and she didn't entirely discard them either, better said that she didn't dwell overly on them.

But this… this just kept turning and turning around in her head. And Elsie had her reasons.

Her mother Margaret was pregnant with Becky and was constantly worried she'll lose it like many other babes before and after Elsie. Ailsa had come to see Margaret with a fresh basket of vegetables when Margaret voiced her fears to Ailsa. Elsie, then much younger, was playing in the kitchen. She was supposed to help with the dishes, but the arrival of the guest distracted her mother and so young Elsie was free to play. After a short chat Ailsa rose to leave. She looked at Margaret for a few minutes, her head tilted, eyes dark, when she uttered the words that young Elsie would never forget. "Ye'll have a bairn alricht, dinnae ye worry. A bairn the will stay a bairn." And true to Ailsa's word, Becky stayed a child. The mind of a little child in the body of a growing girl.

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The doctor had just left and Elsie's mother was with Becky. Elsie having come out to escort the doctor outside came back into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Ailsa was seated at the kitchen table, having come to check on Becky and Margaret. Her words from earlier were lying dormant in Elsie's mind, Becky's wails and the doctor's advice having taken a higher place in her train of thought.

"A cup o' tea Mrs McDougall?" Elsie asked just before fetching a couple of tea cups and saucers from a top shelf.

"Aye, thank ye Elsie," Ailsa nodded.

Elsie wordlessly poured two cups, carefully placed them on a tray and brought it to the kitchen table. Ailsa turned her head from the kitchen window from which she was staring at the twilight sky and looked at the tea cups briefly and at Elsie.

"For yer Mam?"

"I asked. She said she didnae want any," Elsie smoothed her skirts and sat down at the table opposite to Ailsa. Taking the tea cup and the saucer from the tray she placed them on the table, and absentmindedly turned the tea cup round and round in the middle of the saucer, staring at the deep brown and reddish liquid, that reflected small areas of her face blurred by its movements as the liquid tossed inside the cup. Ailsa's words from earlier gradually making their way back into her thoughts.

"Are ye alricht lassie?" Ailsa asked, with concern written in her eyes as she studied Elsie lost in her thoughts.

Elsie looked up suddenly ad her eyes fixed on Ailsa's. A magnetic force, keeping her gaze fixed as she tried to find the words. "Whin ye said that the hills willnae trap me, I didnae ken whit ye meant," she said, questions looming in her eyes. Her bright blue eyes boring into Ailsa's dull grey ones.

Ailsa sighed but kept her gaze fixed on Elsie's eyes. After a moment she looked away to the kitchen window where the purple twilight skies were giving way to the dark night. When she looked back at Elsie, her eyes were darker. Almost darker than when she met her on the road.

"Ye'll see m'lass. Ye'll see," Ailsa sighed and began again when she read the expression of unclarified doubt written on Elsie's face. "Scotland is in yer blood but it's no' written in yer heart." After a moment's pause she emphasized, "Well… mair like no' written _for _ye heart."

Ailsa paused expecting more questions from Elsie from but seeing Elsie staring intently at her without moving a single muscle on her face she continued at a very fast pace, "Ye'll fall for a sound o' thunder born wi' two brown depths. Face a door o' death 'n look back at life. Ken ye heart at sea, fill it at Christmas and complete it in spring."

"But—"

"Ye'll have tae wait for the winds o' changin' times m'lass. And they'll no' come fast," she finished with a rather sad smile on her face.

Elsie looked down back at her tea cup and frowned, "The moors? Ye mean… England?" She couldn't almost believe her ears when she voiced the words, unable to understand how that could be ever possible for a simple, Scottish farm girl. When she looked back up at Ailsa, her eyes were yet again that innocent shade of grey. A slight shiver ran through Elsie's shoulders.

Ailsa smiled and finished her tea in a couple of sips and a final gulp. Standing from her seat she looked down at Elsie and smiled, "Time m'lass. Give everythin' time."

She looked down at the hallway, at the dim light which allowed shadows to dance upon the walls of the old farmhouse and its worn wooden furniture, "I shuid git goin'. Tell yer Mam I'll come by th'morra."

When Elsie tried to rise from her seat, Ailsa raised her hand to stop her. "No, no lassie. Dinnae disturb her. 'N ye… ye git some rest." She smiled and turned towards the door to leave.

Elsie watched her retreating image and shuddered when the open door blew in a gust of cold air into the house. At the sound of the door closing, she looked back at her cup of tea and took a sip. She looked at the kitchen window. Twilight had passed, it was night and darkness had engulfed the outlines of trees that had peered in through the purple skies and shapes of dark clouds. A darkness that blinded the rest of the world. And Elsie wondered what the future may hold.

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**Thank you so much everyone for all your lovely reviews on the earlier chapter. I wasn't expecting that at all. I'm sorry for taking quite long to publish this chapter. The Scottish dialect (or more precisely the Scots language) are direct translations from the internet. I'm considering writing a couple of more chapters to this, but I'm not very sure. Let's see how it goes : ) And thank you again. Hope you enjoyed! **

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**Glossary:- **

**richt – right **

**whit – what **

**1 ****mair – more **

**I dinnae ken whit tae dae – I don't know what to do **

**Tae dae – to do **

**Alricht – alright **

**Cannae – can't **

**Straicht – straight **

**Willnae – won't **

**Didnae – didn't **

**Ken – know / understand **

**2 ****ye haunless eejit urr ye standin' in yin steid? – you clumsy idiot are you standing in one place? **

**Bairn - child**

**Whin – when **

**Git – get **

**th'morra – tomorrow **


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